


On the Rocks

by flyingisland



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shizaya - Freeform, Shizuo Never Got Fired From The Bar, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6605548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wanted a peaceful life, a nice job, a boring existence. He wanted nothing more than to go through his days like any other normal human being, but Izaya couldn’t let him have that. Why, he’s never been able to figure out. But he’s pissed, he’s tired, and his clothes are wet.</p>
<p>Someone has to pay for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shizayabayo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shizayabayo/gifts).



It’s a slow night when Izaya enters the bar.

He’s been wiping down the counters, washing used glasses and hanging them back in place. He’s checked his stock three times and scanned his eyes over the four patrons manning the bar in search of someone who might want to order another drink. No such luck.

It’s boring, and being bored pisses him off.

There’s a sports game drowned out by the music playing overhead. He’s not entirely sure which teams are playing or even what sport it is. He drags his eyes away from the screen as annoyance stabs through his chest.

And then, like a moth drawn by the flame of his bubbling anger, the physical incarnation of the worst migraine he’s ever suffered wanders in through the front entrance.

The bell dings. The other patrons don’t bother to lift their drunken heads from their glasses. He resists the urge to hurl a rack of freshly-cleaned wine glasses at the bastard.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya calls, hands on his hips as he saunters oh-so casually toward him, “Fancy meeting you here.”

He says it as though he doesn’t frequent this bar every other weekend—as though he hasn’t been an unrelenting kink in Shizuo’s otherwise tranquil life for nearly a decade now.

“I work here,” Shizuo grumbles, rag in hand, struggling not to jump over the counter and wrap it around the little fleabag’s neck, “I’ve worked here for three years.”

Izaya laughs as though that’s some sort of joke. He slides onto a bar stool next to a slumbering drunkard, drumming his fingers against the glossy mahogany and dragging his eyes over the long line of name-brand alcohol on the shelves.

“I’m surprised Shizu-chan hasn’t broken anything yet.”

He tears his eyes away, wiping a few flecks of dust from the counters and refusing to look at Izaya for too long. The truth is, he's broken a lot of things since he started working here, but never anything that a cut in pay couldn’t fix. As time dragged on, the regulars learned to avoid pissing him off and the newcomers were warned about him immediately, and he’d found that he had less and less reasons to destroy anything.

It was a much-needed reprieve, for a while, until the little beansprout shit-for-brains decided to ruin everything.

“Are you going to order anything?” he spits, grasping a random glass from the rack and wiping down the inside, if only to give trembling fingers something productive to do, “I can kick your ass out if you don’t order something.”

He’s not sure why he says it, because if he’d waited only a few minutes longer, maybe he could have actually booted the idiot out. Instead, the most sinister of smiles tugs at the corners of Izaya’s lips. He’s still not looking at Shizuo, just smirking at the drinks on the shelves, thinking, surely, about the most irritating thing he can possibly order.

“An _Orgasm_ ,” Izaya speaks simply, watching him from the corner of his eye and surely counting down the seconds until his next explosion, “Give me an _Orgasm_.”

He’s going to have to try harder than that. The only thing more tired than this cat and mouse routine between the two of them is the constant barrage of giggled orders for these stupid dirty mixed-drinks. None of them are even that good, in his opinion. They’re too complicated, too strong. He prefers to slip gradually into drunkenness, if only so he can relish the sensation of all of his anger fading to nothing more than a dull ache.

Wordlessly, he shoots Izaya a glare, fetching each of the bottles from the shelf and setting them on the counter. He grabs a short, round glass, making quick work of pouring equal portions of each different type of alcohol inside of it. When he’s finished, he nudges it toward Izaya.

“Six hundred yen, louse,” he barks, taking a moment to return the bottles to the shelves, “Nine hundred if you don’t get a fucking move on it.”

Izaya smiles as though Shizuo has said something sweet, pulling his wallet from his jacket pocket and sliding a thousand yen across the counter.

“Keep the change,” he purrs.

Tipping is not customary, and the bastard surely knows it. Every so often, a group of well-wishing tourists will leave money for him on their tables or at the bar, and his boss has reminded him several times that they’re not intending to be rude.

But cultural differences are reserved for human beings, not life-draining bacteria with shit-eating smiles.

He takes it regardless, pulling the extra yen from the register. He’s not sure what to do with it, but his boss will suspect that he’s shortchanging people if he leaves it in there. Eventually, he opts to simply lift the register, stuffing it underneath. He can feel Izaya watching him, and the last thing he wants is for the moron to think that he actually needs his charity. Someone else can find it later. Maybe it will make up for a shortage. It’s not his problem anymore.

When he turns, Izaya hasn’t made a move to even touch his drink. He’s watching every move Shizuo makes, like a wolf watching a deer, like he has something evil in mind that Shizuo would never even want to comprehend.

One of the other patrons asks for a beer, and he happily obliges. He can still feel slimy louse eyes roving along his skin, but the distraction from that horribly smug face is more than welcome.

He pours the beer from the tap, sliding it toward the man and accepting payment. Izaya still hasn’t tried his drink. He’s leaning against the counter, chin rested on his hands, just watching, smiling, emanating the most insufferable aura that Shizuo has ever sensed before.

“Bartender,” he calls lazily, staring right up into Shizuo’s eyes from under the hood of lashes, “Another drink?”

By the time it’s all said and done, there are five glasses sitting in front of the louse, all yet to be touched:

His _Orgasm_ , an _Anal Sex_ , a _Blowjob_ , a _G-spot_ , and a _Blond-headed Slut_.

He thinks that Izaya might have made the last one up on the spot, but it’s a real drink, and the idiot smiled at him with only the slightest hints of surprise when he’d pushed the glass toward him.

The bar has cleared out considerably in the hour since Izaya came in. It’s fifteen minutes until closing, and the irritating prick is the only one left. Shizuo takes a moment to check the bathroom, unsure of if it’s safe to leave Izaya unsupervised or not, but knowing that he’ll be in trouble if he leaves a drunk in the bathroom again.

When he returns, Izaya _still_ hasn’t taken so much as a sip from any of his drinks. The foam at the tops of some has faded down to nothing, condensation clinging to the edges of the glass and pooling in small puddles against the counter. He swallows a scowl, slamming the door to the bar just a little too hard before stomping over and wiping down what he can reach of the wood.

“We’re closing,” he hisses, shoving one of the drinks to the side and cleaning underneath, “So fuck off.”

Izaya simply grins, hinting a finger around the rim of one of the many drinks—the _Blond-headed Slut_ —and sending him the most infuriating of winks.

“You can’t actually kick me out, can you?” he asks, taking great care in shoving as much smugness into each syllable as he can, “So I guess Shizu-chan is stuck with me until his shift ends.”

He resists the urge to grab the bastard and physically throw him out, but he knows that his boss watches the outside cameras. There’s no way that he wouldn’t be fired for assaulting someone who wasn’t even drunk.

Shoulders stressed and stiff, he makes his way out onto the floor, cleaning off the tables and putting up chairs. Izaya is whistling off-tune, and he knows it’s only to grate on his nerves. The moment his shift is over, he’s going to beat the little worm’s brains in. Then he’ll mop the floors for a second time. It will be worth it, he tells himself. Maybe his boss will even notice the extra work. No one will miss the shady informant. No one who matters will remember him at all.

When he’s finished mopping, he dumps the water in the back and begins to count the register. The doors are locked. Izaya is watching each of his movements with frustrating concentration. When he locks the register, sliding the till into the safe and resetting the security code, Izaya finally speaks.

“You’re not going to take your tip? How rude.”

He twitches, but refuses to reply. He can feel every nerve in his body howling in high alert. His muscles and bones rattle within him, urging him to disregard yet another job in favor of pummeling the bastard into the counter.

But he resists. Kasuka bought him enough uniforms for the next five years. He doesn’t want them to go to waste.

Every bar stool is stacked on the counter except for Izaya’s. The lights are dimmed, the music and the television are turned off. It’s five minutes after his shift is supposed to be over, and the bastard still isn’t leaving.

Fuck it, he thinks. He’ll take the damn write-up.

He winds around the bar, reaching forward in silent rage. He grabs the ameba by the back of that stupid fur-rimmed jacket, pulling him out of his seat. Izaya doesn’t struggle, doesn’t argue or threaten him. Instead, in a flash of moment that his eyes barely register, the louse grasps one of his many drinks and pours it over the front of Shizuo’s shirt.

It’s room temperature and reeking of alcohol. Instantly, his clothing clings to his skin. The remaining foam bubbles and pops against his vest. He’s frozen in place, absolute, terrifying anger burning deep inside of him like the fires of Hell that Izaya is surely so eager to welcome when pulling such a stupid stunt.

Before he can make a move, another drink is being dumped over the front of his pants.

“Shizu-chan was looking a little hot,” Izaya jeers, eyes sparking in the darkness with nothing short of sick mirth, “I thought I’d help him cool down.”

The glasses shatter against the floor. They stare at each other for a long moment, oxygen depleting as every drop of blood concentrates in the budging veins on his forehead. Within seconds, he’s thrusting Izaya onto the surface of the counter, jostling a few bar stools and knocking over the remaining drinks. Izaya’s shitty face is pressed into the mess of glass and alcohol, the slightest hints of blood mingling on the glossy wood as the informant writhes around in his grip.

“S-Shizu-chan,” he huffs, mouth full of a mixture of three wasted drinks, “You’re making a mess.”

It’s the last thing he wants to hear. His shift ended ten minutes ago. He just wanted a peaceful life, a nice job, a boring existence. He wanted nothing more than to go through his days like any other normal human being, but Izaya couldn’t let him have that. Why, he’s never been able to figure out. But he’s pissed, he’s tired, and his clothes are wet.

Someone has to pay for that.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing when he presses Izaya’s face harder into the counter, holding him down with one hand as the other comes to rip off his belt. The leather creaks miserably, and for whatever reason, Izaya stops struggling.

The louse is laughing madly. The sound of it alone sends spikes of heat straight to his groin. He doesn’t even want to consider why. He doesn’t like any of this, but he can’t stop himself.

“Blond-Headed Slut,” Izaya muses, cracked and bloody lips stumbling over each word, “How befitting, since Shizu-chan wants it so badly.”

“Shut up,” He croaks, yanking down the bastard’s pants, redness blurring the edges of his vision, “Just shut the fuck up.”

His hand is removed from Izaya’s head, and while he expects him to dart away, he stays in place. After a moment, when the flea is sure that he won’t be held down again, he struggles to his hands and knees, ignoring the glass digging into his palms and the slippery surface that he clings to.

His ass is just centimeters away from Shizuo’s face, and the blond pulls back with fervor. What the Hell is he doing? This is the exact opposite of what he wanted to happen.

“Shizu-chan wasn’t planning on taking me dry, was he?” Izaya questions, flipping over to rest his backside against the counter, “That doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. I might have to pass.”

Grumbling, he pulls away. There are streaks of blood and the moisture of his drinks clinging to Izaya’s cheeks. As though he notices Shizuo’s discomfort, he ghosts a finger over the mess of it, smearing it even further and pulling some to his lips.

He licks his finger, slow and sure, never breaking eye contact.

“Get out,” Shizuo shudders, wracked with so many emotions that he can’t pin down just one, “Get the fuck out!”

Izaya cackles, sliding over the edge of the bar and landing on unsteady feet. There’s booze everywhere. Shizuo’s feet slip against it as he attempts to move further away, and for fear of falling, he allows the louse to grasp his sleeve and pull him closer.

Wordlessly, Izaya rummages around in his jacket, hand in one of the many hidden pockets as he searches for something that Shizuo is absolutely sure he doesn’t want to know what it is. He lets out a little sigh when he finds it, movements too quick for Shizuo’s eyes to register, before setting it firmly on the surface of the bar.

“Shizu-chan is never prepared for anything,” he draws out slowly, running a finger down Shizuo’s arm, “But fortunately, I am.”

The item on the counter—a bottle that glistens in the darkness and the lights pouring in from outside—is small and unassuming. He’s never seen this sort of thing outside of convenience store shelves in the sections that he only passes through on his way to grab toilet paper.

Lubricant. Never used. The seal is broken, but the bottle is full.

Izaya seems to have the wrong idea about this entire situation.

In a fit of anger, sure, he might have basically undressed the moron, but… Sex? At work? With Izaya?

There’s no way in Hell.

He turns to shove the louse aside, but somehow he’s kissing him, and somehow he’s pushing him up against the bar. He’s pulling away, but he’s actually pressing hard against Izaya’s erection, angling himself so that the aching hardness trapped underneath his fly grinds into it just right. Izaya is making little noises between breaks for air. Everything tastes like alcohol and blood. A bite of copper, a sting of vodka, the heat of Izaya’s wet lips biting at him hungrily.

He’s not interested in this at all, but he’s unzipping his pants. Izaya is grabbing the lube and dribbling a little along his fingertips. He’s sticking them inside of himself, hiking his leg up on the last bar stool and letting out a low hiss as the first one dips in.

Before he can as much as blink, Izaya is on his knees. He’s fingering himself still, huffing these erotic little breathes that do nothing but drain more and more blood toward Shizuo’s needy cock. As though he understands just how desperate his movements are making the blond, he reaches his free hand forward, grasping at Shizuo’s shaft. Three long, torturous strokes, and a hot mouth is enveloping him. His head tilts back, a noise escapes him. Izaya eases him to the back of his throat. They both tremble. They both want this so bad that it hurts.

It doesn’t last for very long. There’s a long crack inching its way along the edge of the counter from where he’s gripping it in his fist. He doesn’t know what he’ll tell his boss in the morning.

When Izaya pulls his mouth away, they sit in silence for a mere three heartbeats. It feels like an eternity, staring down into twin coals, something sneaky and needy and oh-so unbearable twinkling up at him.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya moans—actually _moans_ —pressing a hand against the bar stool and lifting himself from his knees, “Payback for the _Blowjob_ … What were the others called again?”

He has the louse thrown over the counter in seconds.

“Dirty fucking flea bastard,” he bites out, working the remaining wetness from base to tip, shaking with something that he refuses to believe is anything but rage, “What the fuck are you getting at?”

They both know the answer to that. Izaya is on his hands and knees, slipping in the moisture that still hasn’t dried, thrusting his ass high up in the air as his fingers spread his cheeks apart. He’s giggling, a disgusting sound, and Shizuo resists the urge to shove him forward onto the floor.

Instead, he grabs him by the knees, yanking him back so that his legs dangle over the edge. In this position, he’s close enough for Shizuo to press himself inside.

And he does.

It’s not slow and careful. He takes no time to shove the entire length of it in. This might be his first time. This might be the billionth time he’s done it, but he’ll be damned if he lets Izaya figure it out either way. He’ll be rough. Izaya is bleeding and laughing and making gross jokes. Izaya doesn’t deserve the tender care that he might take with anyone else.

Neither of them comment when he pulls himself out halfway, shoving inside roughly as his fingers dig into Izaya’s hips. There’s a sharp breath through gritted teeth. There’s a wheezing of someone struggling to grow accustomed to his girth. There’s a lot of cursing and huffing and their noises mingle into something so loud that he feels as though he could have drowned out the radio if he’d forgotten to turn it off.

Izaya pushes a foot against the bar stool, attempting to stabilize himself as his other foot hangs helplessly in the air. He’s gripping the edge of the counter. He’s resting his face in broken glass and spilled drink. He’s watching Shizuo over his shoulder.

“S-Shizu-chan,” he shudders, arching to meet Shizuo’s thrusts, “S-so rough. Don’t—don’t you love me?”

It’s not a serious question. Shizuo can’t believe that he’s found the will to joke around at a time like this. A specifically hard jerk of his hips has the fleabag choking out a sound, begging for something, maybe. Crying out like he’s never been fucked before in his life.

He can feel a heat swelling in his belly. He watches the reflection of himself and Izaya in the mirror behind the bar, through the gaps in the bottles and the darkness which hangs over them like a thick, black blanket. Izaya is shaking so hard that he thinks he might fall off. He tightens his grip, wondering how the bastard will feel when he wakes up tomorrow covered in so many cuts and bruises.

He doesn’t want to think about that.

When he cums, he cums hard. He chokes back a curse, a name, a million words that he refuses to let slip past his lips. Izaya has slipped a hand between him and the wood. He’s tugging limply at his own erection, writhing, mumbling little groans and shooting a small string of semen into the rest of the puddle that Shizuo isn’t looking forward to cleaning up.

They sit together. Shizuo doesn’t pull out. In and out, in and out, they breathe and they shake. Neither wants to speak first. He refuses to look back into the mirror.

He tears himself away after what feels like a century. Izaya is sprawled out. He doesn’t move to sit or to slide to his feet. His chest expands with air. He breathes out. It’s too quiet. The air is heavy with too many smells to count.

Tucking himself back into his pants, he makes his way to the back room to refill the mop bucket.

When he returns, Izaya is gone.

No note, no text, no indication that he’s not hiding somewhere in the shadows. Shizuo checks each room three times before he allows himself to finally head home.

The next night, thirty minutes before closing, Izaya returns.

He’s covered in Band-Aids and bruises. On his lips is a familiar shit-eating grin.

And he orders another drink.

**Author's Note:**

> So.... this is.... quite the story. Shizayabayo is a very good friend of mine with some very specific perversions. May God have mercy on both of our souls.
> 
> Anyway, it was fun! This was an idea of theirs that they sort of scrapped a long time ago. A very innocent prompt of: "Shizuo never got fired from his job as a bartender, so Izaya visits him and annoys him" turned into this big ball of smut. I'm so sorry. I hope you liked it regardless! I feel like... when writing rough sex, I just can't quite make them... not very violent and hateful toward each other. I am very sorry, Shizuo's boss. Please don't dock his pay too much!
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed it! I promise I don't only write dirty things....


End file.
